


A Favour

by roraruu



Category: Fire Emblem Echoes: Mou Hitori no Eiyuu Ou | Fire Emblem Echoes: Shadows of Valentia
Genre: Bad End AU, Dancing, F/F, Grief/Mourning, Implied Femslash, clair’s In the bg btw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-28 21:20:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17794961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roraruu/pseuds/roraruu
Summary: Tatiana and Mathilda ask each other for favours, both big and small.





	A Favour

**Author's Note:**

  * For [oceanics (shadowdance)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowdance/gifts).



> im withholding zeek and chive’s girlfriends for the month  
> this is for oceanics bc she opened my third eye to these two _(:3」∠)_

Mathilda has never enjoyed balls or cotillions or dances. She’s attended them out of duty for her house, but she’s never truly enjoyed them with the passion that others seem to have. They’re too loud, too gaudy, too gossipy for her liking. Too many tortuous tongues spewing gossip and lecherous ears lapping it up.

Her parents and younger sisters had mistakenly assumed she’d enjoy them now that her betrothed is dead; he holds them in the same disdain as she did before. Balls and cotillions and dances are as insufferable as they were before his departure, and now less bearable without his sickly-sweet nothings and chaste dances.

What makes it worse is the invisible bubble that surrounds her. It’s as though there’s a perimeter, a circle of rope around her that others can see, but is invisible to her eyes. They move past, with thin-lipped smiles and cautious whispers asking if she’s the captain of the Brotherhood or that her beloved is dead. She’d rather have people approach her face first, ask her about her position or Clive, rather than see them linger around with those stupid smiles and hushed tones. This bubble confines her to the side of the ballroom, where many of the wallflowers hide and silently hope they’ll be asked to dance. She notices a few other widows around, their husbands or wives claimed by the bloody war.

 _Widow_. She says the word aloud in her head. She hates how harsh it sounds, how quickly it begins and ends. And she hates that she’s one now. Her fingers pluck at the tips of her gloves, a gift from her sister-in-law. Her eyes scan the crowd of partner-less women and men, either spouseless or separated by death like she.

Unlike the many others, Mathilda isn’t hoping for a dance from another man to alleviate her pain. She’s only here out of her knightly duties… And the pleas from King Alm to influence the old Rigelian and Zofian houses to attend alongside the common folk. She knows the importance of her presence at this ball, for the sake of peace and unification. She notices the contrast of wide, beautiful ball gowns and long coat tails to meagre bonnets and Sunday’s best tights and tunics.

Mathilda spies Tatiana amongst the other wallflowers. She’s in an exceptionally lovely white ballgown, a earthy-green shawl around her shoulders. Her minty hair is swept back into a long braid and knotted with a pretty ribbon.

Mathilda remembers the day she arrived at the castle. Fraility and weakness marked her face, something she could never unsee. She caught sight of her cheeks, gaunt and thin—having lost that pretty roundness and healthy flush. She didn’t look like the healer she’d seen on the battlefield before—the one who always had a smile, no matter how dire the wounds. Silque had brought her, explaining that General Ezekiel had disappeared without telling Tatiana of anything; as a result, she holed herself up in her church, praying to the Gods to return him to her. The saint had said she suspected he regained his memory and returned to his original family.

The king and queen had opened their arms to her, offering a home until she could return to her church in a healthy state. Mathilda hadn’t seen her in ages, suspecting that she’d fallen back into the habit of praying to deaf Gods.

“She looks dreadful, doesn’t she?” Clair asks sadly. Her sister-in-law had come upon her boyfriend’s arm, a sign of serious intent. Yet she insisted on checking in with Mathilda between dances like she was a debutante.

“The poor woman.” Clair breathes, glancing to Mathilda. She wears a frown and holds her ornate fan between clenched fingers. For a moment Mathilda falters, seeing her beloved’s grace and might reflected in his sister. “I believe she’s been widowed. A true loss.”

Clair’s eyes flicker to Mathilda. The knight frowns at the word and the painful familiarity that lingers with it. “It’s a good sign she came though,” she adds, absentmindedly playing with her fan, unfolding and folding it.

“Or a bad omen.” The knight murmurs. “She could be trying to make people believe she’s fine when she’s not.”

Clair frowns. “Why would she do that?” She asks as the music begins to change. It becomes lighter, moving from a waltz to a simpler tune.

“Sometimes it’s easier to pretend nothing is wrong. If one acts like it for so long then they begin to believe it.” Mathilda says. She stands a little taller and takes a part of her gown in her hand. “Pardon me, Clair.” She says curtly. The pegasus knight’s gaze narrows as Mathilda begins to wade through the crowd.

Tatiana’s staring off into nowhere, her twig-like arms hold her shawl loosely around her emaciated frame. Her hands fidget with something. She looks like she’s drifting off to another plane of consciousness. Mathilda knows that look all too well, something that had overtaken her in the war.

In truth, she sees herself in Tatiana’s tired eyes and unsteady hands. Widowed or abandoned doesn’t matter, only the pain that she tries to ply with prayer. When Clive died, Tatiana made small efforts for her; checking in on her, offering to let her sleep in the med tent instead of her lonely bed, an ear to hear her pain. She sees in Tatiana’s teary-eyes that the tables have turned, and that she is crying out for comfort in a voice that speaks only in scriptures.

“Good evening Tatiana,” Mathilda says quietly, trying not to alarm her.

Tatiana’s eyes flicker to Mathilda. She blinks quickly, pulling herself out of her muddy thoughts. She politely curtseys, although it’s weak and fumbled. “Lady Mathilda.”

“I’d thought you’d be dancing here.” She says. “Or at least talking to someone like Silque.”

“Sister Silque could not make it,” Tatiana’s voice is weak and thin.

“Then may I be by your side?” Mathilda asks.

The saint nods and folds her hands over each other. Mathilda notices a red and gold prayer cord looped between her gloved fingers. _Praying even when she’s away from her altar._ Mathilda thinks.

She’s trying to quell her pain with pleas to the Gods—Mathilda had done the same but in the form of her training. Many days she’d had her lance in her hands from the sun at dawn to the break of the moon. While it helped to dull the ache and distract her, it only became harder to cope when training was no longer an option.

They watch the ball-goers take their places, bowing politely in a mess of watercolours, blending together in swirls and swatches. They clap their hands and dip each other and change partners repeating constantly until they come back to their original ones.

She remembers learning to dance and being completely embarrassed when she stepped on Clive’s feet for the first time. He’d simply laughed it off and offered her a smile. “ _If you wish to wound me, I‘d bear all your lashings with pride, milady_.” He’d said. The memory sparks a sad smile on Mathilda’s lips.

“Milady, are you all right?” Tatiana asks.

She clears her throat, standing taller. “Yes. I was just thinking of the first time my love and I danced.”

Her face falls a little. “Oh, I wish I could say the same.” The saint says.

“The General did not dance?” Mathilda asks, surprised at the idea of a man of such stature not having the lessons.

“No, he did not enjoy it.” She says sadly. Her hands fidget, the cord rolling between her fingers. “He said the Gods had cursed his feet to be as muddy as his mind.“

“So he was a bad dancer?”

“Absolutely terrible.” Tatiana says, the ghost of a smile touching her lips for a split second and disappearing into a blank look just as quickly.

“How sad.” Mathilda says, drawing back a breath as she glances to the saint, striking as much calm bravado as she can. She holds out her hand. “In the absence of our beloveds, may I ask you for this dance?” She asks.

“It’s...” Tatiana’s brow furrows. “It’s not a single-gender dance, milady.”

“I know.” Mathilda says, extending her hand further.

“Do you know how to lead?”

“I’m sure I can learn if you allow me time to.”

Tatiana bites her lower lip, meeting the knight’s gaze. “Why should I?” She asks, eyes widening as she realizes her rudeness. It’s an endearing sight to see her ditziness return after all this dourness. “I-I mean, why should _we_ dance?”

She stumbles through words, trying to find a polite mixture until Mathilda leans closer, her gaze softening. “How about as a favour?” She asks, knowing it’s enough to draw out the saint’s kind and giving nature.

Tatiana’s eyes hold Mathilda’s gaze as she slowly holds out a gloved hand. The knight takes it, and the two walk towards the ballroom floor. They catch a few noble eyes, but Mathilda does not care and she believes Tatiana feels the same way.

The music begins, slow and simple, an accordion plays quietly. Their dance is more of an awkward fumble at first. They bump into a couple out of passive incoordination. The knight is too used to dancing in the lady’s role. Her brow furrows when she feels Tatiana’s hand rest on her waist and her hand moving to a bare shoulder. She leads, gracefully taking Mathilda around the ballroom with light and careful steps.

“You dance wonderfully. Where do you learn?” Mathilda asks. She hadn’t expected the saint to be a leader.

“The church I served at gave lessons.” She says, keeping her gaze to their feet. The saint obviously did not receive proper etiquette, because dancing is the only acceptable time for long and lingering eye contact.

The knight feels the prayer cord, hard between their hands. Their grasp loosens as Mathilda is spun out for a moment. She catches Clair’s gawking gaze before Tatiana pulls her back.

“You’re quite the leader.” Mathilda marvels.

“Thank you.” Her voice is quiet as she moves them past an elder couple. “I would have thought you’d have a date or escort tonight.”

“Come now, I couldn’t dance with anyone but my dear Clive.” Mathilda says.

“So I don’t count?”

“You count.” Mathilda says. She feels Tatiana’s hand loosen on her skirt.

“I do?” Tatiana asks, wide-eyed. The knight nods, holding her gaze for a moment.

The crowd erupts in applause and cheers. Tatiana’s grasp tightens for a moment before she drops it chastely. She bows her head politely. “Thank you for the dance milady.” She says, her face red.

Before Mathilda can return her polite gesture and say thank you, Tatiana turns on her heel and walks through the crowd, escaping from the busy ballroom and out the doors. Mathilda’s gaze traces the floor, noticing Tatiana’s prayer cord on the shiny tile.

She swoops down, picks it up and holds it carefully in her hand. There’s an old Rigelian prayer inscribed in careful thread. It’s pretty and simple—the handiwork is proof of her dedication to her faith. She returns to the corner of wallflowers, staring at the cord for a moment until Clair approaches her. “Milady what was that?” The younger asks, eyes wide.

Mathilda smiles thinly. “A favour.” She says simply as Clair clucks on and on about station and their positions as old Zofian nobility. The knight glances back to the sombre prayer cord, mirroring her sorrowful lance.

 

* * *

 

Tatiana has had troubles sleeping since Zeke left. Her bed—no matter how warm and how fine—cannot pull her into a slumber. Most of the nights, she lays awake and turns back to her altar, praying that he’ll return from wherever he went.

Before he’d left she’d been an early riser, waking before the sun rose and lazily collecting seashells by the coastal shores of her church. She’d honed her waking habits in the war, when the mornings came early and the marches lasted until sunset. But when Zeke left, he took her ability to sleep, her comfort and her love, and now she’d pray to the Gods to bring it back.

She’s thankful that no one uses the Idol Room anymore; it’s become as messy as her mind. King Alm and Queen Celica were kind enough to grant her a lovely chamber that had a view of the ocean on clear days, but it’s stifling. She feels as though the walls are going to close in upon her and consume her whole. So when she found out about the Idol Room in the basement, she’d slowly moved her things in. She’s never been a good housekeep, too scatterbrained to focus on one mess before moving onto the other. The Idol Room is reflective of her lack of skill.

Tatiana’s belongings are strewn about. A worn blanket here, the cloak she’d arrived in there, her ballgown wrinkling in the corner of the room. Water glasses are everywhere, kindly brought down by King Alm himself each morning. There’s a leather-bound diary, turned over with a pen nearby; she uses it to write unsent letters to Zeke, ones that she can never give to a travelling merchant because she doesn’t know where he is.

She always leaves the doors slightly open. It was something the elder at her church had said: “that way, those who need strength may fall into Father Duma’s holy grasp.” Even at night, she lets the door sit ajar, held open by one of her dusty black magic tomes. She considers the open door a welcoming from the dead Gods for the living to reach out to them, to pray and receive their love and guidance.

Usually, no one enters. Celica may come down once or twice in a week, say some prayers and thanks to the Gods, but her piety has waned since taking the throne. Tatiana can’t blame her, and to be honest, she’s grateful for the quiet and isolation. She’d wanted that back at the church, but Silque had said it was the worst thing to do after a loss. Tatiana had looked upon her with hideous disregard, bitterly wondering what she could have lost.

She kneels at the foot of the altar, her hands clasped tightly together. She’s been praying for hours, not the longest she’s done before, but definitely not the shortest. She hasn’t slept again, and while she’s tired, she knows she’ll just lay there if she pulls the blankets around herself.

She hears the door creak, her brow knitting in prayer. It’s probably just Alm bringing her another glass of water. He’ll leave it by the mess of blankets that is her bed. She ignores the echo of clacking heels as her fingers crease into her knuckles.

But instead of Alm’s polite silence to her prayers, there’s a voice speaking her name. A woman’s voice.

“ _Tatiana_.”

She pulls her head from its’ bow, looking over her shoulder. Mathilda looks visibly confused and regal at the same time in her captain’s uniform. She rises to her feet, hoping her eyes aren’t still glassy from the tears that escape during prayer.

“Lady Mathilda… W-What are you doing here?” She asks, her brow furrowing. She quickly raises a hand to swipe at her eyes.

Mathilda walks closer and stops a few feet from the altar, a polite distance separates them. “I came to see how you were today. You seemed tired and worn at the ball last night.”

“I’m fine today, thank you for asking milady.” She says, bowing her head in gratitude.

She holds out her hand, her prayer cord dangles between her fingers. “And you left before I could return this.”

Tatiana’s eyes widen, the familiar red and gold reminds her of dancing last night and the comfort she’d felt leading Mathilda around the ballroom. She reaches to take it, and drops it only a second later. Mathilda reaches down, picking it up again and taking her hand, placing it in her palm.

“T-Thank you.” She says, her face on fire. She pulls her hands to her chest, clasping them together.

Mathilda looks around the room, obviously surprised at the mess. The knight’s eyes slowly return back to hers. Tatiana feels her cheeks heat with embarrassment. “Did you sleep at all?” Mathilda asks.

The saint moves her shoulders, her long brown shawl slipping closer to her frame. “Oh. I suppose I forgot.” She says, avoiding Mathilda’s gaze. “Just like me to. I find it hard to sleep these days.”

Mathilda has never been the one to mince words, so she lets a breath escape her lips. “Or you’re up praying all hours of the night.” She says.

Tatiana’s brow furrows further. “H-Honestly I forgot.” She says, unclasping her hands. Her fingers curl around the cord. “Forgive my numbness.”

“I felt the same when Clive died.” She says. “But a wise saint told me not to shut others out.”

Tatiana flushes sheepishly. She remembers comforting Mathilda after her husband died, offering her confessionals and sitting with her as long as she needed. There is wisdom in Mathilda’s words—her words—but she cannot take it. Clive is dead and Zeke is gone.

“My pain is different from yours milady.” She says. “My lover is gone. He didn’t tell me where or why, he just left.”

“And you should count your thanks that he still draws breath.” Mathilda says. Her lips are turned into a fierce frown, her gaze stern.

  
“Is that to make me happy and hale?” Tatiana asks tiredly. She’s heard it before from other priests and clerics at her church and people in her village. “I always worried that he had another lover in a distant land… Or that he would grow tired of me and leave. And he did as I feared.”

“Then he did as he saw right.” Mathilda says. Tatiana’s hands clench around the prayer cord, a frown marking her face. Mathilda speaks before Tatiana can argue with her. “I cannot understand why he left, regardless of whatever past he had. It was a stupid move to abandon a saint like you. He is a clueless and worthless man for leaving.”

“And if he died?” She asks, meeting her gaze. She draws back a shaky breath, fighting the rushing heat to her cheeks and tears welling in her eyes.

“Then it’s a true loss and I apologize.”

Tatiana lets her breath go. Her lips move quickly, praying for Zeke’s soul to stay safe in the arms of her beloved Gods. When she looks up again, she sees Mathilda’s gaze on her Mila and Duma carvings, something she’d received from the people of her village as she was leaving. She’s kept them at the foot of the Idol, a lantern behind them that casts shadows across their sharp curves and angles.

“I did not know you worshipped both.” Mathilda says.

“Hm?” She glances absentmindedly. She looks back to the twin statuettes. “I never saw a reason to commit to one and shun the other.”

Mathilda looks intrigued by the answer, studying the carvings for a moment. Tatiana draws back a thin breath, looking to her as she moves down the few steps of the altar. “Is there any real reason you came to see me?” She asks.

“I remember you made an effort to see me when Clive died, so I thought it right to return the kindness.”

“Thank you. Many others seem to turn tail when they see me.” She says sadly. She adjusts her shawl around her elbows.

“A shame.” Mathilda says as she clears her throat. She straightens up. “And I wanted to say I enjoyed dancing with you last night.”

“You did?” Tatiana asks, eyes wide.

“Yes, you’re quite light on your feet. Those are the makings of a fine soldier.”

“My hands are meant to heal, not hurt.” Tatiana says, a small smile growing on her lips at the silly thought of dressing in heavy armour and donning a lance. “But thank you milady. You’re too kind.”

Mathilda nods. “I have training to attend to soon, but I hope to see you more around Castle Valentia from now on.” She says, turning on her heel. Her footsteps echo through the Idol Room.

“May I ask a favour of you?” Tatiana calls, her voice small. “Before you go?”

Mathilda turns back to the altar. Her armour catches the sun that breaks through the skylight above. “If it is in my power I will do it.” She promises.

Tatiana wordlessly moves to her large bag. She kneels down, rummaging through them before pulling out a medical kit and holding a pair of silver scissors. “My hair’s gotten too long.” She says. It’s something she’s meant to do for ages. However, every time she’d asked at the church, the clergy had gasped, told her how lovely her locks were and refused to. “Would you cut it for me?”

“I’m no stylist.” Mathilda says. Her voice is stiff, as if she’d tried playing hairdresser to her dolls as a child and failed.

“I’m not asking you to be.” Tatiana replies, her voice faltering. She swallows her fear, knots her hands into fists and holds out the scissors to Mathilda. She turns around, shaking her head so her mint hair falls in waves.

She feels the knight pull it back gingerly so it falls behind her shoulders. “To here?” She asks. She feels a hand lightly press against the small of her back.

“Higher.”

Mathilda’s hand touches the middle of her back, this time with more pressure. It’s as if the saint doesn’t realize how many inches would leave her head. “Here?”

“Higher please.”

Mathilda’s fingers press between her shoulder blades. “Here?”

“To the nape of my neck, please.” Tatiana says at last. She focuses on the twin carvings at her altar. She knows how long it is, almost two feet of hair—much of her life in the hands of a knight. She’d hadn’t cut her hair since she was a little girl, excepting the odd bang trim here or there.

“All of it?” Mathilda asks at last with a thin breath.

“All of it.” Tatiana confirms.

“You’re certain?” She asks. Her voice is soft, something she hadn’t heard before. Mathilda is supposed to be strong, stern and tough, like a true commander. But her gentle tone reminds Tatiana of the kind and soft-spoken clerics back home. “I’d hate to be the one to take away your beautiful locks.”

Tatiana laughs a little. “It’s silly to say, but I think my grief stems from it… Or at least partly.” She says, pulling a lock over her shoulder. It falls against the pearly plating of her breastplate. She smooths it down. “Zeke always said my hair was my most flattering feature.”

“Then why do you want to get rid of it?”

“Because he left me.” Tatiana says. “And if he returns, I want him to know that I do not need his word to feel beautiful.”

“All right.” She says. Tatiana feels Mathilda section off her hair into two long handfuls.

“Oh wait,” Tatiana says, returning to her bag. She pulls out a long piece of ribbon and holds it out to her. It had been a gift from Zeke upon their return to the village. “To hold everything.”

She freezes when she hears the scissors snip, but realizes that Mathilda’s cut the ribbon in two. She feels her hair pull into two tight tails and hit against her back. The knight’s fingertips graze against her head as she removes her veil.

“Take a breath.” Mathilda commands. Her voice is gentle and stern, more like the commander she’s to be. Tatiana wonders if she uses this voice on the Brotherhood’s new recruits.

She takes a deep breath, shutting her eyes for a moment. She clasps her hands together, a reflex to pray. She hears the scissors part, then click together twice, cutting through her waves. First the left falls, then the right, curling into Mathilda’s hand. Tatiana’s head springs back, her short hair fluttering out against her head.

Her eyes flutter open, her hand reaching up to touch the short strands. She pulls away at first, surprised at how blunt it is. She runs her fingers along the side of her scalp, then down her neck and resting on her collarbone.

“It’s rough. I apologize, I’m not a stylist.” Mathilda says quickly.

“No. It’s perfect. Exactly what I wanted.” Tatiana says, turning on her heel. She gives her a small smile, a sad but a true one. “Thank you milady.”

“It’s no problem at all Tatiana.” The knight says.

Tatiana feels bold, stands up higher on her toes. “Would I... be able to watch you as you train this morning?” She asks. “I promise I won’t distract you.”

“I think that would be all right.” Mathilda says, offering a smile. The knight stands taller, fans out her simple veil and replaces it to her head. The veil is almost longer than her hair. Tatiana feels her hands linger, flicking her bangs to the side. Her gaze lingers on Mathilda’s focused face, lingering down her hands and to the twin tails she still holds.

 _My hair!_ She thinks, blushing in embarrassment. “Oh! Let me take that.” She insists. She pulls them from Mathilda’s hands and sees her smile, making Tatiana flush further. She turns back to the Idol and statuettes, placing them before their feet, knowing that they’ll be gone before she returns.

 


End file.
